The Cajun Grand Slam

Attempting a fisherman's feat only possible in Louisiana

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The erosion of Louisiana’s coastline is a well-known and well-documented environmental crisis. Ample resources have been poured into slowing and reversing the negative effects of an over-engineered river. One the most effective and promising efforts thus far are diversion canals that allow fresh water to enter tidal marshes that have become saltier over the years. These diversions were not made with the kayak angler in mind, but we certainly have benefitted from them. 

During the past ten years, as I have traveled the southeast as a competitive kayak angler, no environment has captivated my imagination quite like the areas of our coast where these manmade stop-gaps have created a shallow water fishing paradise. In areas like this, it is possible to achieve the coveted Cajun Grand Slam—to catch four of our state’s most popular game fish on the same day. In early May, I endeavored to perform this feat from a little plastic boat using only a paddle and a handful of gear. 

After all these years, the first few moments of any kayak fishing trip still puts my stomach into a not unpleasant knot. Anticipation, expectation, concern,  

and uncertainty combine to form an emotional cocktail that I consider worth getting out of bed at 4 am and driving two and a half hours for. This day’s order, though, was a tall one. Local and federal efforts have created amazing habitat, but as I mentally went over the areas, techniques, timing, and miles that would be required for success—it all started to feel a bit daunting. All there was to do was paddle to the first spot and see how this played out. 

The largemouth bass was the first mark—the one true freshwater species on the list. The vast majority of my time in a kayak has been spent chasing bass in various waters around the country, and I’ve always felt a special affinity for them over any other species. Less than one hundred yards from my launch site, a little drain in the marsh provided a steady outflow of fresher water into the brackish bay. A few casts later, and I was able to check Species One off the list. Not a giant specimen, but fun and scrappy nonetheless. On to the next. 

The Red Drum or redfish is considered by many to be the king of the Louisiana marsh. Our coast draws angling tourists from across the nation to chase these brutes in the shallow tidal ponds of the Delta. They are known for powerful runs, aggressive strikes, and a less-than-discerning palate. In theory, these attributes should make for another layup. I was feeling confident as I paddled into the clear, skinny backwaters where the bronze beauties are known to hang out. One effect that freshwater influx has had is an abundance of submerged or rooted vegetation in the marsh. Aquatic plants such as milfoil and coontail act as natural filters, clearing sediment from the water and increasing visibility—making sight fishing much easier. Even with the wind, I was able to quickly spot a few fish. First an alligator gar, then a bowfin, and then … a red. My first cast landed a bit too far ahead. The second, though, dropped exactly where I wanted it, and as the lure swam two feet in front of the predator’s path I braced for the bite and what would surely be a long tussle. The brace was in vain. Apparently, this particular fish was blind or not hungry. He proceeded to disappear into a clump of vegetation. The search continued for two more hours without another glimpse of the quarry. On to the next. 

Now it was time for table fare. Flounder may not be the sportiest of sport fish, but they are some of the tastiest—so much so that recent regulatory changes have protected them during the fall season. A long paddle to the east with the wind at my back gave me a bit of time to rest and take in the scenery. My destination was a deep pinch point, or bottle neck, in the marsh, where tidal movement has dredged out an area much deeper than the surrounding flats. Flounder prefer to lay on the bottom, ambushing any tasty morsel that happens to swim above them. As I hopped a small faux-shrimp gently along them bottom in this deep area, I was rewarded with a slight tick-tick sensation. After a few turns of the reel handle, a flounder was flopping in the deck of the kayak. The little guy went about ten inches long, so instead of coming home for dinner, he went back in for a swim. Check number two. Now, it was trout time 

Speckled Trout live a fairly nomadic life—they travel long distances to saltier habitats for their late spring spawning rituals, and I had feared I may be a bit late to still find a few hanging around here. Gulls and diving birds are the trout chaser’s best friend. They will often feed on shrimp and small fish in open water, and diving birds are a dead giveaway as to what is going on subsurface. After a couple of hours paddling and scanning the shorelines and grass beds, there were no birds, and no trout. The day was winding down and so were my arms. I decided to give the redfish one more shot. Three out of four wasn’t half bad!

By this time, the wind had picked up, and the angle of the setting sun was making visibility in the marsh ponds more difficult. The solution to this was blind casting in likely areas—hardly the most efficient approach, but better than giving up. Finally, with forty-five minutes of daylight remaining, one of those random casts hit the mark—two feet to the left of my kayak. A behemoth of a redfish had followed my lure to the boat without my notice and engulfed the offering at the last moment. The result was a violent pinning of the rod underneath the kayak as the red surged for deeper water. The drag system of the reel did its job of letting line out, but in my rush to get control of the sticky situation, I held my thumb to the spool for added pressure—a hasty move that promptly snapped the line, along with any chance of putting an exclamation mark on the end of the trip. 

Be it on land or water, I’m a minimalist. I often find myself toeing the line between Taoist-like simplicity and unpreparedness. A quick glance over my kayak at the end of the day as it sat motionless in the calm waters of the roadside coulee “ditch” would easily confirm this. On the deck were four rods tattered from constant use, five squeaky reels that I had gotten my money’s worth out of three seasons ago, a few small boxes of lures just as tattered as the rods, but with more teeth marks. Could I have gotten four out of four with more equipment and a heavier reliance on modern equipment such as a motor? Possibly. Would it have been as much fun? 

Not a chance. •

Louisiana’s coast is a magical place. To find out more about the work being done to protect the resource check out organizations such as Voice of the Wetlands and the Coastal Conservation Association (CCA). You can follow more of my fishing exploits via my youtube channel: ‘Yakhead’.